Page 5

“Funny is it? Wrecking my life?”
I’ve parked and got out of my car back at the office, and for a moment I don’t realize that the angrily spat words are meant for me until I look up and see Miranda Stockwell, all sinewy nerves, blocking my path.
“Ms. Stockwell, if you have anything further you wish to raise, I suggest you contact your own solici—”
“You helped him steal my children from me!” Her face is red, a mess of makeup, as she slams her hands down on the hood of my car. I flinch slightly. Other cars are pulling in around us, so I’m not overly concerned that she’s going to physically attack me, but having just avoided a car park fight with Phoebe, I have no intention of having one here with a client’s ex-wife.
“No, Miranda.” My voice is soft but cool. “I didn’t do that. You did. But things can change. If you get some help, then I’m sure you can reapply for—”
“Oh, now you’re givingmeadvice?” She sneers. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy. You think I’m crazy.” She hiccups a laugh. “He did well, didn’t he? Turning me into a madwoman and you all went along with it.Notstableenough to look after my own children. Such utter bullshit.”
I really have had enough of crazy for this morning, and this isn’t any of my business. Not anymore. The case is done.
“I’m sorry.” I’m wary but I do feel for her. I’d always rather parents split custody, but her erratic behavior made that impossible. “Speak to your solicitor if you want to contest it.”
“Maybe I’ll take the law into my own hands.” She turns, stumbling slightly, and I realize that she’s spent her morning drinking. “And we’ll see how you like that, youfucking bitch.”
She shouts the last words back at me as she walks away, and I lean against my car for a moment until she’s rounded the corner. My head throbs. Well, at least the day probably can’t get any worse.
It’s only later, when I sneak off at the end of the day without going for the ritual Friday drinks at Harry’s Bar, claiming to having to check on Phoebe’s sprained ankle, that I find that the day has indeed got worse. I’m so relieved to be heading home in plenty of time for Will’s bedtime and to have an actual Friday evening withmy family, and then I see my new car.If you want to make partner, Emma, you have to look the part.
The first thing that hits me is where the paintwork has been keyed all along one side, the jagged line clear against the blue, and then I see the note under my windshield. A piece of paper from a spiral notepad, the sort I didn’t think people carried around with them anymore, especially not women like Miranda Stockwell, who I’d have thought wrote everything down in her phone or iPad, but who obviously did.
The word is scratched angrily in pen so hard the back of the paper feels like braille.
BITCH
I stare at it and then look around. No sign of her. No sign of any cameras. I take a picture of my car in situ with the scratches on my phone, not that I can prove anything, and then get in and close the door, tossing the note into the cup well. Great. Just great.
5.
“Hey, where’s Dad?”
“I don’t know. His den, I guess. Is your brother getting ready for bed?” I ask.
I’ve just got home and am getting a glass of water in the kitchen, browsing the mail stuffed by the kettle—some new insurance Robert sorted out, although, looking at this eye-watering premium, I’ll need to ask him why it’s so much more expensive than our previous policies—when Chloe appears, hovering in the doorway, holding her iPad. She’s taller than me now and blond, charming and confident. Her father’s child.
“I’ve set up that Facebook event he wanted,” she says. “Had to add some of the school mums and dads to mine so I could invite them. Think I got everyone.”
“What event?”
“He didn’t tell you? He said he was...” She turns and shouts down the hallway. “Dad? Dad! You didn’t tell Mum?”
“Didn’t tell me what?”
Three minutes later and I’m in Robert’s den, standing in front of the TV, blocking Leeds taking a corner or free kick or whatever it was they were about to do that might give them a chance of winning. “A birthday party?” I say.
“Emma! Come on, I can’t see!” Robert leans over, trying to look around me. I don’t move and he finally pauses the game.
“I said I didn’t want any fuss.” I’m snippy. I can’t help it.
“It’s your fortieth. You’ve got to do something. And anyway, it’s not a party as such, just a gathering. Life begins and all that.” He frowns, irritated. “It was supposed to be a nice surprise. Why are you sobothered?”
I don’t have an answer. I mean, Idobut that’s for me alone.
“You should own it.” Chloe’s half in and half out of the room, and I realize her existence at home is mainly spent in doorways these days, never fully committing to sharing time with us, always with one eye on a quick dash to the privacy of her room. “It’s the patriarchy that makes women worry about getting older. You should embrace it. Your forties are going to be your decade of power.”
“Well, maybe I should startshowingmy power by vetoing this party.”